


Cycle 1

by Byrcca



Series: Pon What? [1]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Episode: s03e16 Blood Fever, F/M, Self-isolation fic dump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:07:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23318833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byrcca/pseuds/Byrcca
Summary: What if, like Tuvok and Vorik, B’Elanna’spon farrcycled around every seven years. What if Tom and B’Elanna were blindsided  by this?
Relationships: Tom Paris/B’Elanna Torres
Series: Pon What? [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677748
Comments: 22
Kudos: 52





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In the summer of 2018 I was embraced some new ficcing friends and threw out a challenge for a round robin: what if B’Elanna experienced her own _pon farr_ every seven years, just like a Vulcan? How would Tom and B’Elanna deal with it?
> 
> I wrote the first (and forth?) cycle, but no one was in a hurry to edit and post their stories, so mine languished in google docs. I’m giving my chapters a final brush up and tossing them up: a little balm for the soul in trying times.

********

“Hey, Miri, watch this.” Tom slipped the edge of the spatula under the sizzling disk of dough and flicked his wrist, sending it into the air. It completed one and a half rotations and landed in the bubbling fat with a sssssss. Three-year-old Miral clapped her hands and puffed out her cheeks. 

“Ooooohhh, daddy!” She was standing on a kitchen chair that had been dragged up to the stove and did her Dance of Joy, a little crouching bum wiggle with her arms flung over her head, fingers flapping, then exploded upward in a jump that sent her twenty centimetres into the air. Tom laughed and put a restraining hand on her chest so she didn’t fly face first into the frying pan. “Flap jacks!” she screeched. 

“That’s a fact, Jack,” Tom answered. “Go sit at the table and I’ll bring them to you.”

She quickly scampered off the chair and dragged it back to the table, then climbed back up, standing and leaning against the high back. She clapped her hands in excitement. 

“Don’t drag the chair, Miral, you’ll scratch the floor. We’re renting this house, remember?” B’Elanna strode into the kitchen and dropped her satchel onto the table. “And sit down before you fall.”

“Hey,” Tom smiled at her over his shoulder, “can you grab the syrup?”

She reached into the fridge and found the bottle of real maple syrup, shipped to them at Tom’s insistence from a small family farm on Big Rideau Lake in Ontario, and placed it on the table with a frown. “Bread and sugar? That’s your idea of a healthy breakfast for a growing child?”

“Want some?” he asked. 

She shook her head. “I don’t have time.”

Tom slipped the final two pancakes onto a large plate and glanced at his wife. She had one hand on the fridge door and the other on the back of Miral’s chair, and was staring at him accusingly. She was tapping her fingernails against the top rung of the chairback, the quick staccato _thickthickthick_ reminding Tom of a fast-dripping tap. “There’s berries.” He gestured to a bowl of blueberries and strawberries on the counter.

“More sugar.” 

“There’s a vitamin or two,” he countered.

“Daddy!” Miral had grown impatient with him hogging the platter. He placed it on the table, plucked two from the stack and dropped them onto her plate. 

“Ye-ouch!” He shook his fingers. “Careful,” he said, “they’re hot.” 

“Hotcakes!” Miri agreed. 

Tom smiled at his daughter then glanced up at his wife. She was still frowning. “What?”

B’Elanna sighed and gestured toward Miral with her chin. She was up on her knees pouring syrup onto her plate and had created a small lake. 

“Woop!” Tom deftly maneuvered the jug out of her hands and set it out of her reach. He moved closer to his B’Elanna, until their chests were almost touching, then whispered, “excuse me” into her ear as he reached around her to grab the bowl of berries. She swayed toward him just slightly. He smiled at her and plunked the bowl onto the table. 

“Use the spoon,” he directed at his daughter. He turned back to his wife. “Want me to see if I can dig up some leola root to put in them next time?”

B’Elanna wrinkled her nose, and he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, then moved his lips over the point of her jaw to the hollow below her ear. There was a fine sheen of perspiration on her forehead, and though it was warm in the kitchen from the stove, he didn’t think it was that warm. She was wearing a modest cotton sleeveless summer dress that skimmed her breasts nicely and nipped in at her waist, then flared out at her hips. It was a personal favourite of his. It made him think things. Things that weren’t exactly appropriate to be thought about in the kitchen at seven thirty in the morning, in front of his toddler daughter.

He leaned in to kiss her again, sweet and deep, and she responded with a gentle pressure, her lips parting, her hand rising to his chest, fingers flexing against his shirt. His hand settled on her hip, and he kissed her until he felt languid and content. Until his belly warmed. He broke the kiss, skimming his lips along her cheek. “I really, really love my wife,” he murmured into her ear. 

“I’ll be sure to tell her that the next time I see her,” she grinned.

“Me! Kiss me.” Miral insisted. 

They both leaned toward her and dropped a loud _smooch_ on either temple, then Tom stole another kiss from his wife. She’d been cuddly lately, one might say downright handsy: fingers gliding down his arm or his back when she moved past him in the hallway, leaning against him while they sat together on the couch. Her foot had been on his leg this morning when he’d woken up, and she’d ‘forgotten her hairbrush’ in the bathroom while he was taking his shower and had to slip in to get it. She’d assessed him, her eyes roving up, then down, his nude body, and sent him a grin and an eyebrow waggle. It reminded him a little of when they were first dating, back on _Voyager_ , when they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Then Miri had woken and called for her mommy.

He made a mental note to check his face for lipstick before he went out this morning. Though, from the stiffness of her posture, it didn’t look like she was too interested in a make-out session. They’d made love last night, and it had been slow and sweet and comfortable but, truthfully, nothing to write home about (not that he _would_ ). Not so much like those early days, after all.

“What time do you think you’ll be home?” he asked, attempting to steer the conversation away from breakfast foods.

“When I’m home.” Her voice was clipped, and she darted a glance to her satchel. 

“Hey.” His voice was a soft rumble. He took her hands and pulled her away from the table, behind Miral’s chair. He dipped his head and caught her eyes. “You’re not nervous, are you?” 

“Of course not, I just…” She glanced away. Looked back into his face. “I’m cranky,” she finally admitted. 

Tom stared at her and tried not to laugh. No kidding. “Really? I didn’t notice.” She bumped his arm with her shoulder and he swayed backward a little, then slid his arms around her waist and pulled her close. “I like you cranky.”

She snorted. “You don’t.”

“Sure I do.”

She stared at him, her expression flat. “You know something?” She shook her head. “That just pisses me off even more.”

Tom laughed and kissed her ridges, and hugged her close. She was stiff in his arms, scowling at him, her hands fisted on his chest. “How about tonight, after your meeting, we get a babysitter for Miral, have a romantic dinner at that little seafood place down at the bay, maybe go dancing, then come back home for more dancing…” He arched an eyebrow and sent her his most beguiling smile, but she looked away. 

“How about I get back to you?”

Tom repressed a sigh. While her temper could sometimes be fun, other times it just pricked his own. This was turning into one of those times. She seemed to read his mood change and stiffened, then _huffed_ and pushed herself out of his arms. He let her go. He glanced past her to catch his daughter stirring the bowl of berries with one hand while she popped them into her mouth, one at a time, with the other. She’d made a mess of her pancakes, chopping them into tiny bits and smearing them around her plate; she may have eaten half of her breakfast.

B’Elanna followed his gaze and her mouth tightened, but she didn’t say a word. “I have to go,” she said instead.

******

Tom was finishing up washing the dishes—he and Miral had just finished a late lunch after spending the morning at the park—when a hand touched his back and snaked around his ribs. He almost dropped a plate. B’Elanna leaned her chin between his shoulder blades and tilted her nose into the hollow behind his ear. 

“Mmmmm, you smell good.”

Tom’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “We were at the park,” he said, rinsing the plate and setting it in the rack to dry. He turned and slid his wet hands around her waist. “Do I smell like sunshine, and fresh air, and bug spray?” 

She smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling with humour. “You smell like you, _loDnal_.” She closed her eyes and angled her mouth toward the spot where his throat met his shoulder. “You smell like my mate.” 

Her voice was low and husky, and her lips parted and her warm tongue touched his skin. His stomach muscles, among other parts of him, gave a little involuntary jump. His eyes flicked to the doorway that led to the short hall that ended at the living room where Miral was playing. “How’d it go? I thought you’d be there all day.”

B’Elanna’s fingernails grazed his belly through his shirt. “It went fine.” Her hand moved up his chest to the first shirt button and flicked it open. He grinned and raised an eyebrow. He was about to ask what had gotten into her (and his lizard brain immediately thought about getting _into_ her) when she undid the second button, then the third. 

“Just, _fine_?” He clapped her hand against his chest halting its downward movement. “What are you doing?” He said it with a smile in his voice but immediately caught his breath when she buried her nose in his chest hair and inhaled. “You’re home early,” he attempted to deflect her attention from his chest before she got any ideas about heading lower. “It’s barely fifteen hundred.” 

He’d tried to switch back to standard time after they’d returned to Earth, but his brain wouldn’t allow it. He had to pause and do the math: subtract two, drop the ten, and he found himself falling back into Starfleet time by habit, especially when he was under stress. B’Elanna was stressing him right now. “Did they like your syllabus?”

“Ummm.” She snuggled closer, nudged his shirt open with her nose.

“Then why are you home? I thought you’d be in meetings all afternoon.” His voice rose an octave on the last word as her tongue flicked his left nipple. “B’Elanna!” He looked at the doorway again.

“What?”

“Miral might…you know.”

She tilted her head in question. “What’s she doing?”

To be honest, with her it could be anything by now. He strained his ears, listening, and heard her voice faintly, not loud enough to actually make out what she was saying. If he only had Vulcan hearing. “I think she’s reading to Toby,” he said. “I can’t tell.” He smiled at his wife. “If Tuvok or Vorik were here, they could tell us.” 

“What’s she reading?” Her left hand was creeping down his back toward his ass.

“If You Give a Targ a Truffle,” he replied, letting go of her waist and reaching for her wandering hand.

“He’ll want a wild blueberry to go with it?”

“Yeah.” He threaded their fingers together. “Whaddya think would happen if I gave an engineer a sonic driver?” He grinned at her.

“Oh, I’m pretty sure she’d want an optronic _coupler_.” Her voice was husky, and she leaned up and nipped his chin, worked her way along his jaw toward his ear. 

Tom shuddered. Nothing turned him on faster than her teeth grazing his jaw: it was like flicking a switch in his brain, tumbling him back into that damned system of caves on Sakari IV. He must have some sort of sadistic streak, he reasoned. The idea of sex where sex wasn’t permitted, like a turbolift, or the upper engineering deck on _Voyager_ , or the kitchen when their daughter was playing in practically the next room, made him crave it all the more. Especially when the object of his desires was so soft and willing in his arms. 

“Umm…didn’t,” Tom gulped, “didn’t Captain Chapman schedule meetings all day?”

“He did. I told them I had to leave.” Her teeth sank into his earlobe and he hissed a breath; his fingers spasmed on her waist. “If they want me today, they’ll want me tomorrow. Do you want me, _loDnal_?”

Like a hungry targ wanted a truffle! But…was Miral singing now? “B’Elanna…”

“I’ve thought about you all day, Tom. Thought about your hands on me, you inside me. You are my mate. Make love to me, _parmaqqay_. Claim me.”

Hell, yes! Tom thought. He loved it when she spoke ‘Klingon’: mates and claiming and all that sexy stuff. But to get to their bedroom, they had to go through the living room where, hopefully, Miral was still playing. The little maze-like bungalow had seemed quaint to them when they’d first rented it, felt a bit like their old quarters, but now he was wishing for back stairs that led to a second floor master. Or a bathroom with a lock. His eyes darted to the doorway again.

“She won’t come in,” she breathed against his throat. She slipped her hands out of his grip and dropped them to his blue jeans. She popped the metal button and slid down the zipper. Blood roared to his penis in waves, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. B’Elanna freed him with a chuckle and wrapped her fingers around him. He surged against her palm and buried his face in her hair. 

“Jesus, B’Elanna,” he breathed. He gripped her waist, accidentally pulling up her skirt a few centimetres. His hand slid over her hip to cup her ass cheek, and she wound her leg around his, pressing her hot center against his thigh.

“Come on, Tom,” her voice was cajoling, but there was a note of victory in there; she knew she’d already won. “We can be quick. We’ve been quick before,” she whispered into his ear.

That was an indisputable fact. The cold, cranky woman from this morning was gone, replaced by his warm, amorous wife, and Tom found himself swayed, _cajoled_ , as it were, willingly. Miri was busy, and if she could sometimes be fidgety, she could also concentrate for tens of minutes on a single game, making up stories and adventures that rivaled his own holoprogrammes. And they could be quick when they put their minds to it. 

He squeezed her buttocks through her skirt, then grabbed it and pulled upward, slipping his hand under the fabric and over her hip, following the elastic of her panties with his finger. He traced around the top of her leg to her inner thigh and slipped his finger underneath the cloth. He brushed her damp curls, and she convulsed with a gasp. She was warm—hot. Moist heat radiated from her centre; the gusset of her panties was damp with it. Tom’s breath hitched as lust slammed into him. 

She was panting against his throat, her lips parted, her harsh breath tickling his skin and he slid a finger inside her, marveling at the velvet softness of her. Her body buckled. If he hadn’t had an arm around her back, she may have fallen. 

_Nownownownow_ his brain insisted. With one more quick glance at the doorway, he withdrew his hand, grabbed her by the hips, and hoisted her onto the counter. She spread her thighs and bent her knees, then hooked her feet at the small of his back and pulled him toward her. She had one hand on the wall behind her, the other on the countertop, and her body bowed toward him, her breasts thrust tantalizing close to his chin, the well-defined muscles in her legs and arms bulging from the strain. 

He didn’t bother to try to remove her underwear, just shoved it aside with one hand as he guided himself into her with the other. He _hissed_ in pleasure at her tight heat as her muscles pulled him in, then he stopped breathing altogether as she shifted and wrapped herself around him. She straightened and clung to him, moving her arms to tighten around his back. One hand fisted in his shirt, the fingers of the other slid under his shirt collar to brush the back of his neck. He shivered.

“T… Tom…” Her voice was high and breathy, and he withdrew a little, then slammed into her with little finesse. She slid backward on the counter, her head whacking against the door of the upper cupboard, and Tom slid a hand into her hair to cradle her head. He scattered kisses on her brow, mashed his nose into her temple. He loved her hair, the curls that she worked so hard to control, its silky softness. Loved when she dragged it across his chest and belly as she worked her way down his body. He braced his feet then pounded into her once, twice, three times, his hips jerking, his entire body straining, and she caught her breath then grunted into his ear as she began to shake. Her heels dug into his lower back as her legs gripped him, and he fleetingly wondered if her fingernails tore through the fabric of his shirt as they scored his shoulders. One more thrust and his universe pulled tight around him, then exploded outward like a supernova, and he was done. 

He sagged against her, panting. _Shit! Holy shit…_ They’d had daytime quickies before but, holy shit, not like that! 

She was gasping, her breath ragged and harsh as his own, nuzzling his throat and jaw, when he heard Miral. “Daddy?” She was calling him from the other room. His gaze shifted from B’Elanna’s shoulder to her face, and he saw humour there. He quickly pulled out of her and flipped her skirt down, turned toward the sink and tucked himself back in. 

“Daddy? Where are you?” echoed down the hallway. 

“In the kitchen, honey.” His voice cracked, and he heard B’Elanna chuckle. 

“Why are you sitting on the counter, mommy? Are you making cookies?”

“No. Actually,” she answered. Tom heard the humour in her voice. “It was so I could be as tall as daddy so I could kiss him.” Her hand landed on his lower back and he felt a spasm of residual pleasure zip along his spine. He craned his neck and looked at his daughter. 

Miral jumped up and down, up and down, hopping herself into the lower cupboards. “Put me on the counter, too!”

“Just a sec,” Tom said. He plunged his hands into the still-hot soapy water and cleaned the last plate, then pulled the plug. He dried his hands on a towel, then scooped some bubbles with his fingers and deposited them on Miral’s nose before grabbing her and hoisting her onto the countertop. B’Elanna was adjusting her skirt, showing the barest peek of thigh, before flipping the fabric back down and smoothing it demurely over her knees. Tom’s lower spine still tingled. While quickies were fun, he’d always been more interested in the main meal than the appetizer. And he knew he’d never be able to look at that section of countertop again without picturing B’Elanna there with her thighs spread, inviting him in. 

Their eyes met, and he recognized the heat that was still in hers. She bit her bottom lip in an attempt to contain her smile. “Did someone say something about making cookies?” Tom asked, directing his attention toward their daughter. 

Miral squealed with joy and clapped her hands. “Peanut butter!” she insisted. 

“With chocolate chips,” B’Elanna added, smiling at their daughter and giving her a quick peck.

As Tom reached for the bin of flour, he briefly wondered why she was suddenly so on-board with a snack that consisted of bread and sugar. 

******


	2. Chapter 2

B’Elanna tossed the padd onto her desk and her eyes strayed to the door. She could hear the sounds of that silly television show that Tom and Miral enjoyed so much, coming down the hallway into her study. Tom was keeping her busy so she could work on her syllabus for the class that she was going to be teaching at the Academy, but her mind kept wandering back to the kitchen and the counter and Tom. _Yowza_. To his throat, and the hollow at the base of his collarbone. To the crisply curling red-gold hair that had been just barely visible in the open collar of his shirt. 

She grinned, remembering. He’d been on her mind all morning, even in the meeting with Chapman and O’Brian, her attention had strayed to her husband. She’d wondered what he and Miral were doing, and if she’d be napping when she came home. At three, she’d almost given up her afternoon nap, and they couldn't count on those few hours alone, anymore.

When she’d walked into the kitchen earlier and saw that Tom was alone, seen his broad back bent over the sink, she’d stood in the doorway for a moment admiring the play of muscles in his arms and back as he washed the dishes. Three years after resigning his commission, he was still fit, still an extremely good looking man, and his obvious contentment being home with Miral had made him even more attractive to her. Her husband. Hers. 

She felt a tug to be near him, to touch him, a warming in her belly that kept distracting her from her work. The volume rose on the television, music swelled, and Tom and Miral laughed. She hadn’t napped this afternoon, and B’Elanna hoped that meant that she would go to sleep a little earlier this afternoon. 

She decided Chapman’s questions could wait. She stood up from her desk and headed toward the living room.

**

B’Elanna sat on the couch beside Miral, and Tom glanced over at her and smiled. “Done?”

“For now.” She smiled back. 

Miral grabbed a handful of popcorn and shovelled it into her mouth. “Slowly,” her mother cautioned. The little girl chewed noisily and Tom caught his wife’s attention over the top of Miral’s head and sent her an amused glance. _Yeah, yeah_ , he thought, _she eats like a targ_. He lifted an eyebrow, hoping he’d conveyed the thought to his wife. Her eyes heated, and he watched as colour flooded her cheeks. Well then. Well. Then. 

Miral picked stray pieces of popcorn off her lap and offered them to Robert, her toy robot, then popped them into her own mouth and _mmmmed_ in Robert’s robotic voice. She and B’Elanna had made him from bits of string and tubing, and assorted bits and bobs that they’d found around the house. Tom was pretty sure there were a few hair clips in there too, for hands. Robert had eyes that lit up when you pressed a button on his back, B’Elanna’s only concession to replicated parts. B’Elanna’s eyes were glowing right now, and he wondered what would happen if he pressed _her_ buttons. 

“On our way ‘ome!” Miral chorused along with the Robert on the television.

B’Elanna turned her attention to the show, and Tom appreciated the finely sculpted lines of her profile, her strong chin and full mouth, cute nose and delicately feathered forehead ridges. He thought about licking them and shifted in his seat. 

B’Elanna frowned. “Oh, please.” She sounded affronted. 

“What?” He looked back to the tv. Matt and Venus were trying to dissuade Steve Zodiac from his belief that he’d just seen a UFO. 

“A flying saucer? You can’t be serious.”

Tom shrugged. He glanced at Miral. “It’s supposed to be silly. We like silly, don’t we?”

“Silly!” she confirmed, punching the air with a fist.

“I’m just saying, it would make more sense if it were shaped like a _rocket_.” Her tone slid from derisive to seductive. She was smiling at him again, her eyes glittering, and Tom felt his own rocket start to prepare for launch. 

The music swelled, and Miral tensed and snuggled against him, her little body shaking in exaggerated fear. Tom looked back at the screen and saw the main characters walking through a darkened yard.

“Why doesn’t Venus have her own stun-gun?” B’Elanna asked. “Captain Zodiac should have known better than to leave his in the hovercar.”

_Colonel_ , Tom thought. He smiled. “It’s a ray gun.”

“Well, whatever he calls it,” her tone turned sultry again, “I’m sure his _gun_ is stunning.” She smiled back at him over Miral’s head. 

Tom swallowed. He hadn’t brought up the dinner date he’d suggested at breakfast again, but he was starting to think a babysitter for Miral this evening might just be a good idea. The cookies and popcorn, _breakfast of champions!_ , would throw off her dinner, so there wasn’t much hope she’d settle into an early night. He wracked his brain trying to come up with a name of someone who would babysit for them at such short notice: his parents? Not his first choice. Harry? No, he was (not) lost in space. What was the name of that teenage girl who lived three houses down? Micky? Nicky? Vicky? Best not to leave your child with someone if you don’t know their name.

“Ohhhh, POW!” Miral shouted as Steve fired his missiles into the rogue planet that was headed on a collision course with Membrono. He turned back to the tv in time to watch the missiles hit the planet and it erupt into flames. He felt warm fingers touch the side of his head, stroke his ear and neck. He repressed a shiver and darted a glance at B’Elanna. She was watching him, laughter—and something else—in her eyes. 

“How many times do I have to remind you, _Zodiac_ , no metal in the microwave oven.” B’Elanna sent Tom a look that was pure heat, hot enough to rival the burning planet. He stared at her, at her glowing eyes and flushed cheeks and the little smile that tugged at her full, sexy mouth. He’d like to put some _metal_ in her _oven_.

He glanced at the screen: Steve was sweating. Tom knew the feeling. The picture jumped from an image of the flaming planet, to one of Venus, her face damp with perspiration. Steve shouted.

_“If it doesn’t burn itself out soon, we’ll really be a fireball,”_ Matt said.

“He’d better pull out before that planet _explodes_ ,” B’Elanna murmured.

Miral turned toward her mother and clapped her pudgy little hands over her mouth. “Stop, mommy!” She looked fierce for a moment then leaned in and kissed her mother on the nose, before she turned and settled back down between them. Tom rescued Robert before she sat on him. 

_“Gee, that sure was a close one!”_ Steve Zodiac said. The rogue planet had exploded, the ‘Doomed’ planet of Membrono was saved. The ancients who populated its moon were safe. The closing credits came on and Tom glanced at his wife, singing along. 

“ _I wish I was a spaceman_  
 _The fastest guy alive._  
 _I'd fly you round the universe_  
 _In Fireball XL5.”_

She scowled, playfully. “Didn’t we already do that?” she teased.

_“Way out in space together_   
_Conquerors of the sky.”_

He stood and lifted Miral from the couch, and swung her in a circle. She shrieked, and he settled her across his hips. She brought her hands to his cheeks and squeezed his face so Tom had fishlips for a moment. _“My heart would be a fireball, a fireball.”_

“Fireball!” she shouted. 

_“Every time I gazed into your starry eyes.”_ Tom danced her around the room. 

“Dance with mommy,” Miral insisted, wiggling until Tom plunked her down onto the floor. He offered a hand to his wife.

B’Elanna rolled her eyes, but stood and slid her palms up his chest and around his neck. She seemed to melt into him, softening and warming in his arms. He leaned down and kissed her softly, then lost the thread of the song for a moment as he stared into her eyes. 

She pressed against him, and the fingers of one hand wove into his hair and tugged. Tom’s breath hitched and his groin tightened. He wasn’t sure what stardust magic was going on, but there was something about her today, something that had got into _him_. He loved her, of course, that was why he’d chosen her, why he’d married her, and he wanted her all the time, but today he seemed to want her ALL the time. He stared into her eyes and he’d swear to God he saw stars.

“ _My heart would be a fireball, a fireball,”_ he whispered against her mouth, “ _'Cause you would be my Venus of the stars._ ”

Miral had been twirling around the room with Robert and she smacked into their legs with a “Woup!” 

The doorbell rang with an insistent buzz, and Tom dropped his arms from around B’Elanna and started toward the back door still belting out, “ _Fireball, fireball, Every time I gaze into your starry eyes._ ”

There was the shadow of a figure through the opaque glass, and Tom frowned; they weren’t expecting anyone. He opened the door, and his sister stood there, looking behind her shoulder toward the driveway. She had a hand raised, index finger extended in the act of admonishing someone who was out of sight. Her youngest child, for the moment anyway, skirted Tom’s legs and shot into the house. 

“Rafe, no running!” She tilted her chin up and smiled at him. “Hi, bro.”

“Moy.” Tom stood aside as she walked into the kitchen. He frowned in confusion. “Did I forget…?”

“Miri? Are you ready, sweetie?” she called. “Sorry to be in a hurry but Cianan is in the _car_ and he’s a bit too much like his Uncle Tom for me to feel comfortable leaving him alone for long.” She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. 

“Ready? For what?”

“B’Elanna commed me earlier today.” Moira waited a beat but Tom obviously didn’t react the way she thought he should. “I’m picking her up.”

Tom was no further enlightened. “Why? Where are you and B’Elanna going?”

Moira looked at him like he was stupid. “Miri. She’s staying the night. Doofus.” She smiled to soften the insult.

“She is?” Tom followed her out of the kitchen and down the hallway into the living room. An involuntary grin spread across his face. 

Miral and her cousin were stuffing toys and books into Miral’s backpack. It looked like a rocket pack, courtesy of uncle Harry, and had become her go-to carryall whenever she left the house fully equipped. “I wanna take Robert!” she announced. 

“That’s probably not a good idea,” Tom cautioned. “He’s pretty delicate.”

Moira tilted her head in a move that was pure Tom Paris. “Are you implying that my children are destructive, Thomas Eugene?”

“Uhh, I…”

She shrugged. “You’re probably right.”

“I would use the word, rambunctious.” 

Moira chuffed at him, her mouth dropped open, then she turned her head to stare deliberately at her niece. 

“You have a point,” Tom conceded. “We haven’t really done dinner yet,” he confessed. 

“I’ll feed her,” Moira assured him. 

“Where’s Toby?” Miral wailed, her voice rising in panic. 

“I already packed him,” B’Elanna answered, handing an overnight bag full of clothing to Rafe who _struggled_ it onto a bony shoulder. She looked up at Tom and smiled. “Surprise.”

Tom smiled back.


	3. Chapter 3

Suddenly, it felt like all the noise had been sucked from the room. Tom turned from the closed door toward B’Elanna. She was leaning against the kitchen counter, a little smile on her face. He’d heard the phrase, ‘electricity in the air’, but he’d never felt it before, not like this: the air seemed to actually snap and crackle between them. Her smile widened, and it momentarily knocked the breath right out of him. 

He took two long strides toward her, bent at the knees and leaned forward, and grabbed her by the thighs and tossed her over his shoulder in a classic ‘fireman’s lift’ that he’d been taught at the Academy. She shrieked and grabbed at his shirt for balance. He clamped his arm around the back of her thighs, and settled his free hand on her luscious, rounded bottom as he strode out of the room.

It was a short walk to their bedroom, and he dropped her onto the bed and flipped her skirt up over her torso while she was still bouncing. He reached for her panties and hauled them down her legs. He tried not to think that his sister, with a ‘car’ full of little kids, imagining them doing exactly this at this very moment, and laughed. 

B’Elanna propped herself on her elbows and raised an eyebrow. “What’s so funny?” Her eyes were half closed, and her lips parted in a sensuous grin. 

Her chest was rising and falling, and Tom was momentarily distracted by the way the fabric of her top pulled tight across her breasts. He shook his head, he was not going to answer that question right now! He hauled his shirt over his head and dove for her, knocking her flat on her back, with an “oomph!”. 

He grabbed for her wrists, pinning them to the mattress, and kissed her throat, under her jaw, scraped his teeth over the tendon that led a path toward her collarbone. “I’ve wanted you all day,” he breathed against her flushed skin. He nipped his way across her chest, pushed aside the modest neckline of her dress to lick the top of her breast. She growled his name, and her arms strained against his hold. She could break it, easily, but she was choosing not to, and Tom instantly knew what game she wanted to play. 

As he kissed his way across her breasts and ribs, the heat of her body rose through her thin dress. He shoved the rumpled fabric of her skirt aside with his nose and darted out his tongue to taste the soft curve of her belly. He skimmed his chin over her skin and heard the soft rasp of his early evening stubble on her flesh. She bucked her hips, her body rising, her fingers grasping at air.

“What do you do to me, _parmaqqay_?” he murmured. He dipped the tip of his tongue into her navel, then nipped the point of her hip, bit his way down the top of her thigh leaving little red marks on her flushed skin.

She squirmed beneath him, growling softly, wiggling her hips. “Tommm...” 

Her tone carried a warning, and she parted her legs, welcoming him, impatient. He grinned against her soft flesh, and he licked his way across her thigh toward her center. He kissed her, then lapped at her, and she bucked against his mouth. His teeth scraped her nub, making her gasp. 

She strained against him, her body tensing, and she came hard and fast, the air leaving her lungs in a _whoosh_! Her legs trembled as she shook, her heels dug into his back, her arms strained against his hold, and he leaned his weight on her as he lapped at her. She was gasping great gulps of air and squirming under him, her body shaking and undulating. Her skin was coated in a fine sheen of sweat, and heat rolled off of her. He nipped her belly, and she jerked.

He slid up the bed and took her mouth with his. “Mine,” he growled as he kissed her. “You’re mine, now.” His grip on her wrists must have slackened because suddenly he was on his back, the weight of her pinning him to the bed. Her damp center on his belly, just above his navel, and her pubic hair tickled his ribs. Her hair hung around her face like a dark curtain, and her eyes glowed in the dim light of early evening. 

“I think, _Colonel Zodiac_ ,” she laughed and her eyes were bright with a wicked gleam, “that you’re _mine_!” 

*

She curled her fingers around Tom’s wrists and pressed them into the mattress. She had to be careful; she couldn't squeeze too hard. She had never broken his bones, but she’d bruised him badly. He had never complained, in fact, he’d told her that he liked her mark on his skin, liked that she felt she could be herself with him, could lose control. But in truth, she never had, except for that once on a planet in the middle of nowhere during a mission she could barely remember.

But tonight… tonight she wasn’t sure she could trust herself with him, trust her desire for him not to get out of control. She’d wanted him so badly all day that she could barely concentrate on what Chapman was saying in that damned, interminable meeting. That was why she had left early, why she had come home. She’d been able to beat down her desire for the most part, to not tear the clothes from his back in front of their daughter, but it hadn’t been easy. 

She smiled down at him as she held him between her strong thighs. Her willing captive. Hers. She leaned down and kissed him and she could taste herself on his mouth, on his tongue. Like she’d branded him. Proof that she owned him. She plunged her tongue into his mouth, invading him, claiming him, kissing him until she was short of air and her senses swam. She drew back and he followed her up, straining against her hands, dusting warm, moist kisses on her mouth, her chin, her throat. 

She was still wearing her dress, and it was very much in the way. She wanted the damn dress gone. She felt a fire in her belly, a burning for him, her mate, that could only be quenched by his skin on hers. Desire for him licked along her nerve endings and seared her, made her gut clench with longing. 

She let go of his wrists and he sat up, bumping her into his lap, sliding his arms around her so she wouldn’t fall backwards. She raised her hands to the zipper at the back of her neck, and her breasts rose high and proud, straining against the dark fabric. Tom nuzzled her chest, then bit her nipple through the cloth; she jerked with the shock of it. He slid a hand up her spine and drew the zipper down, nudged the neckline aside to access her breasts. 

“Off!” she said, her voice quavering and sounding far less commanding than she’d intended. “Take it off.” She loved it when he undressed her, loved the way he touched her like he couldn’t couldn’t _not_ touch her. It made her feel powerful, desirable, sexy. 

He fisted her skirt and hauled the dress over her head, then tossed it to the floor and settled his palms over her breasts. He squeezed them gently, weighing them in his hands. He nudged aside the black lace of her bra and sucked a nipple over his teeth, and she gasped and arched her back as electricity shot down her spine. Her hands had settled on his shoulders, and she sank her nails into his flesh. Tom grunted. She immediately let go of him, and his head popped up, his eyes meeting hers, hooded and glittering. His hand wound in her hair and he kissed her, hard.

“Mark me, B’Elanna. We’re alone. Stop holding back.” 

He nipped her throat, her shoulder, scraped his teeth over the curve of her breast, and she jerked. Fire roared up her spine and settled in her belly, and she ground her center against the hard ridge of his erection. The muscles in her legs tensed, her belly tightened, and she put her hands on his chest and slammed him down flat onto the bed. He let go of her ribs, caught her hands and immediately rolled on top of her. 

“Oh no, _be’nal_ , I’m in charge tonight.” His grin held a hint of the devil. 

She bucked beneath him, laughing, toying with him. “You think so, hmmm?” She couldn’t not laugh, at the joy of it, the _rush_ she felt. Like when they’d first started dating, before Miral came along.

He pinned her with his arms and body, ground his denim-clad groin against hers and she felt a renewed wash of desire sweep over her. She felt a tightening, a gathering of her very self, and she pushed him up and off of her, hanging on to his wrists and rolling with him off the edge of the bed and onto the floor. Tom’s body absorbed the shock, and the air left his lungs in a grunt when she landed on top of him. She was momentarily worried that she’d hurt him, that he’d smacked his head on the floor, but he grinned up at her, clenched his jaw, and rolled her again. They came up against the bedroom wall, and she had nowhere else to go, effectively pinned between his long body and the hard floor. He laced their fingers together, squeezed her hands, pulled her nipple over his teeth as he pushed his hip between her legs. Her body tightened again, but this time it was different: this time she tingled, ached, drew inward then exploded outward as she blew apart, bits of her shooting out toward the stars. 

She heard herself whimpering, heard Tom shushing her, felt his strong arms cradling her. His hand was on her hair, petting her head. He’d rolled them onto their sides and gathered her against his chest so she lay half on top of him. She registered that she was shivering, either from reaction to her orgasm or from the cold floor, she wasn’t sure which. 

Tom kissed her forehead and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Hey,” he said softly, “are you alright?” 

“I…” She gulped a breath and nodded. “I think so.” She grinned at him, and watched the expression in his eyes switch from concern to humour.

“You sure are responsive tonight. How long have you been holding that in?”

She laughed, joy swamping her, love for him enveloping her, radiating from her. She tilted her head up, parting her lips and breathing him in, his scent igniting a flame within her. And she was suddenly warm, burning. She sat up and pushed him onto his back, scooted down to grasp the waistband of his jeans. She popped the button in a practiced maneuver, then leaned over and drew the fly down with her teeth. Tom laughed. He helped her shove his jeans off his hips, then kicked them off his legs. He reached for his briefs, but she caught his hands and slammed them onto the floor, pinning them above his head. She straddled him and ground herself against him, and his body jerked, convulsed against her. 

“God… B’Elanna, let me touch you,” he panted.

She grinned, and arched her hips against him in practice for what was to come. 

“No,” she said simply, locking her muscles, keeping him still. She swooped in and nipped his chin, his throat, dragged her lips over the point of his jaw, wanting to mark him. He thrust against her, and she ground down on him, nipped his collarbone, his shoulder muscles. Her teeth hovered over his arm and she panted against his skin, concentrating on the ripples of pleasure emanating from her groin as he slammed his hips against her. She felt the beginnings of another orgasm rolling toward her, impossible but here, and she bit into his arm as the first waves of sensation hit her. His blood hit her tongue and her pleasure doubled, tripled, and she grunted, feeling weak with it. 

Tom rolled her once more and he must have stripped off his briefs because he was suddenly inside her, pounding into her. Pleasure from their joining mingling with the last ripples of her orgasm making her tingle and twitch. She couldn’t speak, could do nothing but clutch at him and tighten her arms and legs around him as she whimpered her approval. He was slamming into her, his hips jerking, his breath rasping in her ear and she pressed her body against his wanting to feel all of him, to take everything from him. 

He didn’t last. He stiffened in her arms, grunting, gasping her name, sounding desperate, like pleasure had passed into pain. And she held him, her fingers clutching his back and shoulder, her mouth open against his throat, panting while he puffed breath and loose kisses onto her hair.

***

At some point, they made it to the bed. Tom was drowsing, one arm flung over his head, the other curled around B’Elanna’s hip and backside as she snuggled against him. She wasn’t asleep but she was relaxed, and that was good enough for him. He wanted to trace lazy circles on her skin but he wasn’t sure he had the energy. 

They hadn’t done that in years: spent hours making love. And they hadn’t been that, well, _rough_ in some time. He suspected they’d been loud, too, and he stifled a laugh. 

“What?” B’Elanna nuzzled his chest, nipped his pec. 

He flinched, but he didn’t think he would bruise _this time_. He wondered what Moira would think if she saw them, slightly bloodied and very definitely disheveled after their _dinner date_. This time he did laugh!

“What?” she repeated, rising slightly on her elbow and leaning over him. Her hair slid across his chest and his stomach muscles tightened. 

He shook his head. “Just wondering if even in her wildest imaginings Moira could guess how we spent the evening.”

B’Elanna laughed. “She has four kids, Tom. She might have some idea.”

“Ahh, but it’s all in the details,” he said.

“And what details would those be?” She sounded happy, playful, delighted with herself. 

She arched an eyebrow and he wanted to kiss her again. Her hand began to wander down his chest, and her fingers grazed his belly, caressed his thigh, slid over his penis. He inhaled a harsh breath and squeezed her hip. “Are you trying to kill me, _be’nal_?” He was only half joking. 

She grinned, her eyes glittering, and sat up to drop kisses on his chest. “You’re mine, _loDnal_. I want to make sure you never forget it. I haven’t had enough of you yet.” 

She kissed him, sucking his lower lip into her mouth, biting down until she drew blood. Tom hissed at the pain. 

She worked magic on him with her tongue and her lips and her mouth. He wove his fingers in her soft hair, watching her, until he had to close his eyes to keep from exploding just at the sight of her.

***

They ate dinner at midnight, naked and seated at the table with a towel under their asses so they wouldn’t stick to the chairs. She’d wanted pasta. He, with a juvenile waggle of his eyebrows, had suggested chicken breast and sausage. 

They lit some candles and drank some wine and when her eyes flamed, when he couldn’t wait another moment to touch her, they had each other for dessert.

*****

It was still dim in their bedroom, the early morning light serving to barely break the gloom. B’Elanna stretched and arched her back, pointed her toes. Her hand brushed against Tom’s hair, and she turned her head and stared at him. He was watching her, his eyes jumping from her breasts to her face, back to her breasts. 

“Good morning.” He smiled at her.

“I know a way to make it excellent.” She smiled back as she threaded her fingers through his hair. 

“Again? Aren’t you sore from last night?” He skimmed his hand over her shoulder and along her arm to her hip in a long caress. 

“A little,” she admitted.

His fingers trailed across her belly and dipped between her legs. He parted her and brushed her nub with the pad of his thumb. “Want me to kiss it better?” His eyes twinkled, and her gut clenched. Her breath left her. And as he moved over her and slid his body down hers, as he gripped her hips hard enough to mark her, she dug her fingers into his shoulders and _hummed_ in pleasure.


	4. Chapter 4

“B’Elanna’s sick?” Moira frowned in concern. “What’s wrong? Is it catching?” She squinted. “Why’s it so dark in there? I can barely see you.”

Tom had pulled on a tee shirt to cover the bite marks on his chest, but the sleeves weren’t quite long enough to hide his biceps. He’d left the lights low hoping Moira wouldn’t notice. There was a _thump_ and a screech from offscreen and her eyes shifted to the left. “Miri seems fine,” she said, sufficiently side-tracked. “ _Lots_ of energy!”

“No, no,” Tom assured her. “Not contagious.” He wasn’t too sure about that actually, after last night. And this morning. His eyes flicked to the bruises on his wrist and he dropped his hand into his lap. He turned his head and stared at his wife, leaning seductively in the living room doorway. Her shirt—his Big Daddy-O Surfer Special—hanging open, revealing the hollow between her breasts. His eyes dropped lower to her belly and pubic hair, to the rounded firmness of her thighs, then jerked back up to her face. She smiled at him and reached to push aside the shirt, and a hard, pebbled nipple popped into view. 

“ _Wwweeeerrrrrt!_ Tom?” Moira whistled to get his attention. 

“Aaahh?” His mouth was hanging open. He shut it and turned back to the image of his sister on the vid screen. 

Moira laughed. “Lemmie guess, B’Elanna is actually _fine_ , just out of sight, making some sort of come-hither gesture. God, Tom, I may be continuously pregnant but I’m not dead! Actually,” she paused, “the fact that I am constantly pregnant should prove my point.” She laughed again. 

Tom frowned.

“I remember what it was like to be newly married with a toddler. You just get your sex drive back and they stop napping, stop sleeping altogether.” Now she looked downright smug. “I can keep Miri another night, not a problem. They’re having a blast. But you owe me, little brother!” She jabbed a finger at him. 

“Yeah, sure,” Tom nodded. “Anytime.” His eyes strayed back to his wife. She had turned around, the shirt slipping off one rounded shoulder presenting her very fine backside to him. She raised an eyebrow at him.

“Wait!” His attention snapped back to his sister as her words sunk in. “You have five boys…four…and a half.” He squinted at the vidscreen but he could only see her from the shoulders up. “ _Seven-ninths_. And Miri’s just one little…” 

He was about to say, girl, when his sister cut him off. “Dirvish. Currently, actually, whirling.” There was another thump and a squeal of joy.

That did, indeed, sound like her. “Before or after the big day?” Tom was almost afraid to ask. 

“Oh, before. Before for sure! I’ll stock up on sleep.”

Tom heard the _whump_ of cloth hitting the floor, and his eyes strayed to his wife’s departing figure. “Totally worth it,” he agreed. “Thanks.” 

He closed the link and stood, peeling his naked ass off the chair, and reached behind his head to grab the collar of his tee shirt. He pulled it up and off in one fluid motion, and dropped it on the floor as he followed his wife into the bedroom. An anticipatory grin split his face. B’Elanna laughed.

******

Sometime in the last twenty-four hours, she’d lost count. Not that she usually kept a tally, but sometimes it was fun to remember a perfect weekend or evening. They’d had a few back on _Voyager_ when their schedules had allowed it, weekends when they’d hardly left the bed, didn’t even bother to get dressed, and blew through all their replicator rations. They’d joked about what they’d do if the red alert klaxon had sounded but luckily it had never happened. 

She dragged the brush through her hair and thought about _then_ , before they were married, and all the shit they’d gone through, some of it his and some of it hers. Fucking Max. Fucking Vorik. The Hirogen, and that cursed data stream bringing more pain than joy. How he’d hurt her and she’d hurt him. Alice. Not that their wedding rings had put a ring of protection around them: fucking Iden and his fucking sentient holograms. Quarra. It was like a bad holonovel. 

Her own doubts, her stupidity, in thinking that Tom might be anything like her father. 

She put down the hairbrush and stared at herself in the mirror, opened her robe and passed her fingers over the bruises on her shoulder and hips. There were dark circles around her wrists from his fingers. They’d have to heal them before Miral came home in a few hours.

Tom padded into the room whistling as he towelled his hair dry. Water droplets decorated his chest and shoulders, and clung to the springy red-gold hair on his chest. He wore another towel slung low around his hips, and it looked like it was about to fall off. She reached out and helped it. 

Tom lowered the towel from in front of his face and grinned at her, raised an eyebrow. 

It hit her like an invincible wave, a tsunami of need. It was crazy how much she wanted him, still needed him. She stood and reached for him, and he dropped the towel to the floor and grabbed her, pulled her close. He kissed her, digging his fingers into her hair, pulling a little, and her legs threatened to buckle. 

She couldn’t get close enough to him. “ _SoH vIghajchoH_ ,” she murmured against his throat. _Mineminemine_ repeated in her brain, pounded in her ears with her pulsebeat. 

Tom backed her against the wall. His hands framed her face, brushed over her hair, and dropped to her shoulders and squeezed. She offered her breasts to him and he took one, laving her nipple to a tight point. Her fingers twisted into his hair, anchored him there, and he picked her up. Her legs went around his waist, and pressed her against the wall. She could feel the cool plaster through her thin robe, the heat of him, of his mouth on her breast, his hands scorching her bottom as he held her up. Her mate. He was her mate. Hers.

****** 

B’Elanna was still asleep when he crept into the room with a cup of coffee. They’d made love again last night—quietly—once Miral had settled into bed. Actually, she’d gone willingly and with remarkably little fuss, after her bath. Spending the weekend with her cousins had apparently tired her out, and she’d slept like she was in chryo. There was no real risk that they would wake her, anyway. They’d been quiet, and tender, and sweet. It was a perfect cap to a decidedly debauched weekend. 

B’Elanna’s lips were slightly parted in sleep, her breathing even. Tom frowned. It was gone ten and, in his opinion at least, her lazy sleep-in had ended an hour ago. He was starting to wonder if she really was sick. He took a sip of her coffee and considered waking her, decided against it, and crept back out of the room. 

**

“...The bear eats all the blueberries but, unfortunately, he also eats your hat!”

B’Elanna could hear Tom’s voice halfway down the hall. He was reading Miral’s favourite book to her, likely for the tenth time. 

“Oh, no!” Miral shouted.

She could read it herself by now, and B’Elanna had often wondered how much was rote memorization, or whether she could actually pick out the words. She’d been tempted to test her, but Tom had nixed the idea: he didn’t want her to feel any pressure to succeed, didn’t want her to question whether or not she _should_ be able to read at three years old.

“...the targ and the baby bear come home with you. By the time everyone gets there, you’re all hungry, and the targ asks you to make fresh pasta for lunch.”

“Fesh passa!”

She’d slept in, _waaay_ in, this morning. Recovering from the weekend, she supposed. She bit down on a grin. Tom had told her about his deal with Moira, and she considered it worth it. _Yowza_. They hadn’t been that…that…well, since their honeymoon. Not even _on_ their honeymoon!

“...go into the larder for flour and eggs and salt and olive oil. When the baby bear cracks the eggs into the bowl, some spills over the edge and onto the floor.”

“Uh-oh,” Miral said, her voice laced with worry.

B’Elanna crept down the hall, unwilling to disturb them, and leaned against the doorframe, watching. They were seated on the couch, the book on Tom’s lap, his arm around Miral. 

“After you’ve all cleaned up the mess, you’ll be sticky from the eggs, so you wash your hands in the sink.”

Tom glanced at Miral, and she nodded solemnly. B’Elanna smiled. 

“You add the oil to the bowl of flour yourself so it doesn’t spill. The targ stirs the dough, but he stirs too hard and flour puffs out in a cloud and settles all over you!” Tom’s eyes went wide with shock, and Miri mirrored his expression. “You remember that you should have worn your apron,” Tom said.

Miral pointed to the illustration. “He looks funny!” 

“He does indeed,” Tom agreed. He glanced up and saw B’Elanna leaning in the doorway. He smiled that slow, sweet smile that always made her tummy tingle. 

“You roll out the dough and cut it and put it in the boiling water while the baby bear sets the table,” he said, not bothering to look at the words. 

B’Elanna crossed the room and sat beside him on the couch. “When the pasta is cooked,” she said, “you drain it in the sink yourself so the targ and the baby bear don’t get burned.” She grinned at him, kissed his temple. 

“You put it in a pretty pasta dish that you bought from your friend Lisa-Marie, the potter, and toss it with butter.”

“Butterrrrrrr…!” 

B’Elanna laughed. “You set it on the table, and scoop some onto the targ’s plate and, chances are, when he sees his pasta, he’ll ask for…?”

“A truffle to go with it,” Miral crowed.

******

Five weeks later… 

B’Elanna woke slowly, the last fragments of her dream evaporating in the early morning sunshine that filled their bedroom. She was on her side, like usual, curled toward Tom with one arm hugging her ribs, her hand angled toward her shoulder supporting and separating her breasts. They’d felt fuller lately, and ached because of it. She’d put on a few kilos, in all the right places according to her husband when she’d complained about her blue jeans not fitting properly. Last weekend, Tom had got a bee in his bonnet about hiking Muir Woods, and she’d ended up replicating a new pair, a size up, because her old comfy, faded ones were too tight to bend in. Breathing in them had been a problem. 

She tilted her head to find Tom staring at her with a lazy smile on his face; his _Sunday Morning Wake Up Call_ smile. Reveille, indeed.

“Hi,” he said, his voice a little rusty with sleep.

“Hi, yourself.” 

He lifted a hand and pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, traced the curve of her cheek with a finger. She listened for sounds of Miral moving around, but the house was silent. They’d been at Moira’s yesterday, celebrating Iwan’s birthday, and they’d stayed late enough that Miral had fallen asleep in a _puppy heap_ with three of her cousins. They’d had the foresight to change her into her pyjamas after supper, so slipping her into bed when they’d got home wasn’t a problem. Tom had tucked her in and B’Elanna must have crashed as soon as her head hit the pillow because she didn’t remember him coming to bed after his shower. Good thing she hadn’t tried the homemade beer or she might have passed out on top of the barbecue. She’d abstained along with Moira, who was due to give birth any day now: a little moral support amongst the drunken revelers. 

Tom brushed her shoulder and collarbone with the back of his hand, and slid his fingers over the curve of her breast. Her nipple tingled and she bowed her body toward him, pressing her breast into his palm. He squeezed gently, and she _hissed_ and jumped away. 

“What?” His eyes widened. 

Her arms stiffened between them: a defensive barrier to keep him away. “It hurts,” she said, confused.

“Good hurt or bad hurt?” Tom grinned.

“Bad,” she snorted. 

He looked thoughtful for a minute. “Is your menstrual period due? When was your last booster?”

She frowned, trying to remember. “I’m not sure. I think it’s good until the new year. What about yours?” They had let them expire when they’d decided to try for a baby and, after she’d conceived, Tom hadn’t got a new one right away theorizing that he couldn’t get her _more_ pregnant. Then Miral had arrived just as _Voyager_ had appeared home and… things had gotten a little complicated and confused for a few weeks. 

“Ummm…” He shook his head. 

“You did get your booster, right, Tom? After Miral was born?”

“Ahhh… Of course, I did. Didn’t I?”

“You’re asking me?”

“No, I’m just trying to remember.” 

He stared at her, his expression blank. It was on the tip of her tongue to rail at him that she had enough on her plate with the class she was teaching at the Academy, and Miral, and his family, so he shouldn’t expect her to remind him about his medical appointments, but she realized that he had taken on the lion’s share of child raising and that teaching had been her decision, though he’d supported her wholeheartedly. 

As her flash of temper receded, she felt her stomachs lurch, felt a wash of heat that had nothing to do with Sunday morning desire. Saliva rushed into her mouth and she swallowed convulsively. Tom frowned. Obviously her distress showed on her face. He reached for her again, his hand brushing her upper arm, and she lurched upright, knocking his hand away.

“B’Elanna?”

She threw off the covers and rolled out of bed, gaining her feet and staggering out the door just as her gorge rose. She clamped her teeth together and slapped her hand to her mouth, shoving past Tom, who was on his feet now, and ran down the hallway. She made it to the toilet just in time to vomit the last of last night’s indulgences into the bowl. She gagged and retched for a full minute, at some point sensing Tom coming up behind her, oozing concern. 

When she was done, she sat on the floor in a heap, her back to the cold porcelain. 

“Would you like some water?” he offered.

A wave of heat and nausea climbed up her body from her toes, dizzying in its intensity. “God, no,” she mumbled. 

“Mommy…?” Miral’s voice came down the hall.

“Ugh,” B’Elanna grunted. 

“Mommy! Daddy?” Tom turned and scooped her up. “Is mommy sick?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Tom hedged. She wiggled in his arms until he set her down, then walked over to B’Elanna’s side and sat next to her on the floor. She burrowed under her arm and curled up against her with her head on her breast. B’Elanna winced. Tom shifted, but B’Elanna waved him away. 

“Poor, mommy,” Miral cooed, stroking her eye and cheek. “Toby will make you better.” She shoved the little stuffed targ against B’Elanna’s chest. 

“That’s okay, sweetie,” B’Elanna said. “He wants to be with you and I don’t want to risk giving him targ-pox.” Miral’s little mouth went round with worry. 

“Why don’t we,” Tom said, “go see what we can rustle up for breakfast?” Miral nodded and stood, giving her mother a final pat on the head. 

“Toby wants booberry pancakes and mabel syrup!” she stated. B’Elanna’s stomachs lurched. 

Tom glanced at her with sympathy in his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, “maybe we can figure that out in the kitchen.”

B’Elanna closed her eyes and leaned against the toilet, the back of her head against the tank, and groaned. She sat there for a few minutes listening to the kitchen noises that came down the hallway: Tom’s voice, an indistinct rumble, Miral’s high pitched excitement, the _clanks_ and _clinks_ of bowls and utensils. She gently poked her belly. Her nausea was receding now, and her dizziness had passed. She climbed to her feet and rinsed her mouth in the tap, and washed her face. She stepped out into the hallway, following the sounds of the two people dearer to her than anyone in the galaxy. The scent of cooking pancakes had filled the hall, and her stomachs growled with hunger. 

She leaned against the doorframe watching her husband direct their daughter in the finer art of pancake flipping, and saw the joy on Miri’s face when she’d done it, with her daddy’s assistance, of course. She laughed with them. Tom turned his head and raised an eyebrow at her, his mouth drawn with concern. 

She laid a hand on her belly and smiled.

*******

“SoH vIghajchoH”. (You are mine)

FIREBALL XL5

Title song from the TV series "Fireball XL5" (1962)  
(Barry Gray

Don Spencer - 1962

I wish I was a spaceman  
The fastest guy alive  
I'd fly you round the universe  
In Fireball XL5  
Way out in space together  
Conquerors of the sky  
My heart would be a fireball, a fireball  
Every time I gazed into your starry eyes

We'd take the path to Jupiter  
And maybe very soon  
We'd cruise along the Milky Way  
And land upon the Moon  
To a wonderland of stardust  
We'd zoom our way to Mars  
My heart would be a fireball, a fireball  
'Cause you would be my Venus of the stars

But though I'm not a spaceman  
Famous and reknowned  
I'm just a guy that's down to earth  
With both feet on the ground  
It's all imagination  
I'll never reach the skies  
My heart is still a fireball, a fireball  
Every time I gaze into your starry eyes

Fireball, fireball  
Every time I gaze into your starry eyes  
Fireball, fireball ......... FADE

(Transcribed by Mel Priddle - January 2014)

**Author's Note:**

> We know that Tom likes to eat (date invitations usually involve dinner), and s7 Tom is constantly feeding B’Elanna, so I figured when he has access to a kitchen he would make it a real kitchen and jump into cooking with the same gusto that he shows for everything else.
> 
> Also, it’s self-indulgent. I admit this freely.


End file.
